


Each to Each

by bitterowl



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Ghost Jared, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9326891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterowl/pseuds/bitterowl
Summary: A friendly ghost meets someone who needs him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For vincentvunvue on Tumblr.

It was the beginning of the Fall Semester at a small but prestigious New York Liberal Arts college, and Donald Dunn was practically vibrating with excitement. This time of year always meant new faces, new personalities, new roommates, new friends. Well, Donald wasn't exactly very good at making friends, but he was kind of shy and didn't really have much in common with other students.

Also, he was dead.

Donald Dunn was currently, and had for the past fifty-two years, been haunting (gosh, he hated that word) the second floor of the Theodore M. Richmond Dormitory Building. It had been newly built when Donald had taken up residence there in his Junior year, the paint barely dried on the walls when he set down his raggedy old suitcase on the clean wooden floors. He probably should have appreciated the clean, mid-century austerity of the building more in life, but he was always too busy studying. Once he had turned eighteen, the orphanage didn't owe him anything—if he wanted a life of his own, he would have to earn it.

Besides, there would be plenty of time to appreciate fresh paint and clean floors later.

Unfortunately, Donald didn't realize how _soon_ "later" was going to be.

After the heart attack—brought on by exhaustion—Donald found himself with more than enough free time to appreciate his dormitory's sunny yellow paint job. In fact, he had so much free time that he also got to enjoy watching it stain and peel over the course of the later half of the 20th century.

"Jesus _Christ_. What a fucking shithole."

And that brought him to the present.

A small young man—at least a foot shorter than Donald's six-foot-four—stepped into the room, burdened with two suitcases, a backpack, a duffel bag, and a sack of fast food. "Seriously? Richard, look at this place."

Donald couldn't help but be a little offended. He had tidied up after his last roommates had left, but there was only so much he could do with his limited resources.

"Their history department is the best in the state," another boy, presumably Richard, stated irately from behind the first.

When the owner of the voice stepped into the room, Donald's heart—if he still had one—would probably have skipped a beat. The boy, maybe only a little younger than Donald when he had died, was all honey-gold curls and delicate bones, pale and slight and fragile. His beaky nose and slender shoulders reminded Donald of a songbird. Perhaps a sweet little flycatcher, or a proud and slender robin, Donald mused, but the intelligence in his impossibly blue eyes suggested that maybe he was more akin to a mockingbird, or even a corvid.

(Donald was studying economics when he died, but his passion had always been with ornithology.)

"Yeah, well, at twenty grand a year, the least they could do is paint."

Richard rolled his eyes at his friend and dragged in a large suitcase behind him. "Big Head, jesus, it's _fine_."

"You're only saying that because you're going to spend all your time in the fucking library," Big Head—had Donald heard the nickname right?—said, claiming the bed and desk on the right side of the room. "Oh, speaking of, did you hear what those kids by the elevator were saying about the second floor?"

"Huh?" Richard said, squinting in Donald's general direction. He shook his head, blinked hard, then looked back over at Big Head. "What? No. What did they say?"

"Apparently this place is haunted," Big Head scoffed. "Go figure."

"Depending on who you ask, _every_ building that's over thirty years old in New York is haunted." Richard rolled his eyes again, dragging his suitcase over to the other desk and sitting down on the wobbly chair. "I wouldn't bother worrying about it."

"Yeah, probably," Big Head replied, though he didn't seem entirely convinced.

Donald suddenly felt a little like an intruder, but it wasn't as though he could just leave. Like the story had been told, he was bound to he second floor—mostly this room in particular—and he was fairly certain there was nothing he could do about it. Still, even after over half a century, it still stung a little bit to have people talk about you as though you weren't there.

 _It's fine_ , he thought, watching Richard put a bunch of pencils into a mug with a wolf on it. _They can't see me. It's not like they're being rude on purpose_.

"I'm gonna go back down and grab my last couple of boxes," Big Head said, dusting off his red hoodie after they had unpacked a bit. "When did you say your parents were gonna bring the rest of your shit?"

"Around six," Richard replied in a distracted tone. He was staring off again, eyes slowly scanning the room as though he were looking for something. Without warning, he scrambled up into a standing position from his deskchair. "Wait, I'll help."

"Cool, thanks," Bighead said, wandering out of the room. "After this, we should go check out that big tree we passed."

"It's just a tree," Richard sighed. "But fine."

Richard shut the door behind him. And with that, Donald was alone again.

 _They seem nice_ , he thought. _Modern, but nice._

Wandering over to Richard's desk, he surveyed the mess its owner had left behind. Without really thinking, Donald straightened a pile of composition notebooks into a neater stack.

If he was going to be their roommate, he could at least make himself useful.

* * *

And he did.

Over the years, past roommates had complained about cold spots in the room whenever he got too close, or about things moving around by themselves in the middle of the night, so Donald usually tried to keep a handle on his admittedly meddlesome nature.

However, within a week, it was more than apparent how much Richard _needed_ him.

It had started when Richard had lost a book he was using for an assignment. Donald had seen the book fall behind Richard's bed the night before—it was hard to not notice just about everything when you had nothing better to do—but after almost an hour of searching through an egregiously messy room, Richard wasn't any closer to finding it.

The tearful panic had tugged at Donald's incorporeal heartstrings. He _had_ to do something. So, when Richard's back was turned, he dove under the bed and, concentrating his ghostly energies around it, flung it out from beneath the bed and into the middle of the carpet.

The noise startled Richard a bit, causing him to whip around and look for the source, but when his gaze landed on the book—tucked halfway under a dirty sweater—he slapped at his forehead. "Oh my _god_ , I am such an _idiot_."

" _Nooo_ ," Donald said, peering out from under the bed. " _Of course you could stand to be neater, but that doesn't make you any less brilliant_."

"Fuck me," Richard mumbled, setting the book on his desk and surveying the room. "I really need to get my shit together."

" _You're doing okay,_ " Donald consoled, crawling out from beneath the bed. " _It's all right to need a hand sometimes_."

Shaking his head, Richard stooped to pick up a handful of dirty clothes and stuffed them into his hamper.

After that, Donald couldn't help but give Richard some much-needed assistance. A little tidying here and there. A blanket tossed over narrow shoulders when Richard fell asleep at his desk. Finding misplaced books and papers. Offering little corrections to assignments left open on Richard's laptop computing machine.

It wasn't long at all before Richard was the center of Donald's tiny universe, filling his previously mundane un-life with a sense of purpose. Somewhere along the way, devoting himself to this strange, beautiful, brilliant young man had become the only available option—it was like two puzzle pieces fitting together, snug and perfect.

For the first time in over half a century—in perhaps his entire time on this earth, both living and dead—Donald felt almost alive.

The arrangement was going swimmingly until one night, when Big Head—Donald had eventually learned that his name was Nelson, but nobody ever called him that—and Richard were both flopped over in their rumpled beds, each with a laptop on their stomachs, playing some sort of game together. _War World,_ or _Crafting Wars_ , or something like that. Donald stood peering down over Richard's shoulder, watching his deft fingers playing at the number keys, silently cheering him on. It seemed important, judging by the amount of cursing coming from both boys.

"Shit! Fuck, Richard—he's going for Luci, use Consecrate!"

"I can't! I'm on cooldown!" Richard hissed. "Fuck, _fuck_ — Goddamnit, Luci stop pulling fucking aggro, you're a fucking Warlock!"

"He's almost down! Holy shit, Richard, use consecrate!"

"I CAN'T! I'M ON COOLDOWN!"

The words meant nothing to Donald, but the dizzying blasts of light and color on Richard's screen—all directed at some demonic-looking creature—made his fists clench and anticipation shiver through him. " _Come on, Richard. You can do this. I believe in you._ "

"Yeah, that's great, but believing in me isn't going to make my cooldown go any faster— FUCK!"

"Fuck it, I'm pulling aggro. I'm not wiping just because that squishy demon-fucker keeps showing off."

"Big Head, _come on,_ " Richard cried, but then let out a laugh that bordered on a cackle. "Holy—did you just crit?"

"HAHA! TAKE THAT MOTHER FU—" Big Head's words were cut off with a loud, angry groan. "Fuck, I'm dead."

 _You'll get used to it_ , Donald thought idly, attention rapt. Despite the chaos on the computer screen, his gaze was now fixed on Richard's bony face. His blue eyes sparkled with frantic concentration, brows furrowed ever so slightly.

_Gosh in heaven, he is beautiful._

"Shit, shit, shit—" Richard mumbled, fingers tapping out a hurried rhythm, completely oblivious to Donald's admiration.

"Holy shit, he's got like, a _sliver_ of HP left, keep going!"

"Yes? YES! HA! HOLY SHIT! FUCK YEAH!" Richard cheered, and when Donald managed to tear his eyes away from Richard's face long enough to look down at the screen, the creature was lying still. "Oh my god, Big Head, you fucking _saved_ it, man."

"No fucking thanks to Luci," Big Head replied sarcastically, though he was still grinning. "He's out of the guild. Gimme a sec before you roll loot, I'm almost back to my body."

" _You did it! See? I knew you would. You're so good at this!_ " Donald said, practically writhing with pride for his roommates' triumph over their strange computer game. Before he could think better of it, he placed a spectral hand on Richard's shoulder.

With a gasp, Richard jerked away, eyes going wide with sudden terror. He searched the room for a moment before his eyes settled on the place where Donald was standing, and though he stared directly at him, his gaze penetrated Donald's middle, focusing on a place just behind him.

The look on his face made Donald want to disappear.

"Okay, I'm back," Big Head said, his words cutting through the silence. "Ugh, go figure, all caster shit this time. Oh my god, fuck Luci, that robe is amazing. I'm half tempted to roll 'need' on it just to spite him."

Richard shook his head and blinked hard, a shudder going through his skinny limbs. Much to Donald's relief, he turned his attention back to Big Head. "What? No, come on. You got that awesome bow last time, let it go."

"He deserves it," Big Head said. "You're a fucking incredible tank—there's no reason we should be wiping at this level. Plus, he got my Fel Boar killed. R.I.P., Mr. Wiggles."

Smirking, Richard fussed with his keys. The little brown-haired elf that Richard controlled jumped up and down on his screen. "Well, if it weren't for you and Mr. Wiggles' brave sacrifice, we would have been done for. You know, I'm really appreciating this new you."

Big Head snorted. "What new me?"

"I dunno, you've been helping me out more," Richard said idly. The little elf stopped jumping, and was now strafing from side to side. "You've been picking up the room when I'm in class, and I'm pretty sure you've been helping me with homework. You know, if I have something wrong, you can just tell me. I'm not going to flip out or anything."

Donald smiled to himself, satisfaction spreading warmly through him. It may not have been a direct compliment, but it was a compliment nonetheless, and it almost made up for the fact that Donald had accidentally scared Richard just moments before.

"Dude, what? I'm not doing anything different." Big Head turned to Richard briefly. "I thought you were the one keeping the dorm clean."

Richard frowned. He was beginning to look unsettled. "No."

"Well, it wasn't me," Big Head replied, distracted by his computer. "I'm as big of a slob as I've always been."

Crossing his arms, Donald nodded at Richard. " _He is_ ," he said.

"Yeah, sure." Richard rolled his eyes, but Donald noticed an almost imperceptible tremor when he waved his hand dismissively. "If it wasn't me, and it wasn't you, then who's been picking up all of our dirty laundry and empty cans of Red Bull?"

Big Head glanced over at Richard, raising an eyebrow. It looked like he thought Richard was losing his mind, which Donald felt more than a little bad about. "I guess it must be the ghost, then."

Richard's eyes went wide, then darted around the room. "Stop fucking around."

"I'm not!" Big Head held up both of his hands. "Okay, but if it's not me, and _apparently_ it's not you, then I don't know who else it could be. Do ghosts clean up after people?"

" _Well_ ," Donald said petulantly, crossing his arms, " _this one does._ "

"Probably fucking not," Richard hissed, cramming his feet under the rumpled blanket at the foot of his bed, shivering suddenly. "Considering they _aren't real_."

"You okay, man?" Big Head asked, furrowing his brow.

"Yes!" Richard said emphatically, though another violent shiver went through him. He looked back down at his screen, eyes wide and jaw set. "Do you want to go do some battlegrounds?"

Big Head watched him for a moment longer. It was obvious Richard was changing the subject. "Sure," he said, then added, idly, "I dunno, maybe I _am_ neater than I was in high school. I must be growing up or something."

Richard let out a humorless laugh. "Ha, yeah. You actually do laundry once in awhile now," he replied, though his tone still belied his uneasiness.

As the two went back to idly chatting about their game, Donald continued to watch Richard, guilt settling over him like a heavy blanket. He was supposed to be _helping_ , but if his actions were frightening Richard, then...

 _I need to let him be_ , Donald thought, wrapping his ghostly arms tightly around himself. He had lived with loads of roommates and scared at least half of them, but for some reason, this felt different. If Donald had a stomach, he was sure it would be sour. Instead, his entire incorporeal form felt like it was sour—like he was made of sourness.

It didn't feel good.

Sighing, he let himself slip into the space between the walls. It was dusty and dirty, but gosh darn if he didn't feel like he deserved it.

* * *

The following weeks were torture. Within the first day, all of Donald's hard work trying to keep the room tidy was undone. By the third, clothes were strewn about, snack wrappers lay un-thrown-away, desks were piled high with cans of various foul-smelling beverages.

On the fifth day, when both of his roommates were at class, Donald found himself staring down at a tipped-over can of Red Bull, wracked by guilt and indecision.

He was at an impasse.

" _They wouldn't know it was me_ ," he said aloud, as though it would make the words more true. " _It's just one can. It's staining the wood._ "

 _Yes, but if you pick up one can, then you'll want to pick up all of the cans_ , a voice in the back of Donald's head nagged. _You know yourself, Donald. Richard's wellbeing is more important than you being a total neat-freak square._

Donald clenched his fists and shoved them into his pockets, forcing himself back into the dusty space between the walls where he wouldn't be tempted.

" _Maybe I should just try to haunt the next room over, or the downstairs kitchen_ ," he said to himself—a little sadly—but wasn't entirely sure if he'd be able to. He was still unsure of what metaphysical laws he was bound by and he had never really tried to push them. Regardless, the space between the walls was where he'd stay until he could curb being such a massive creep.

It wasn't until about a week later, on an unseasonably cold October night, that Donald met his limit.

He was currently staring—a spindly hand pressed over his mouth in deep concern—at a sleeping Richard. Richard had nodded off while studying, as he was wont to do, and everything would have been fine if he had just remembered to close the window. Donald had intended to leave him be—he was on his bed, after all, not on a snowy street-corner or anything—but when Richard had curled in on himself and began to shiver ever so slightly, Donald found himself consumed with worry.

" _People don't die as easily as they used to_ ," he said aloud, pressing a hand to his own cheek, still staring down at Richard. " _He's not going to die of hypothermia, and people very rarely die from catching cold anymore_."

There was an ugly little part of Donald's mind that wondered what would happen if Richard did die, but Donald ignored the tiny thrill that came along with the thought.

" _No,_ " he said, suddenly. " _I'll be darned if I let him get sick under my watch_." Slowly, Donald leaned over Richard—careful not to touch him—and slid the window shut. " _There_."

Richard groaned in his sleep and rolled over, curling in on himself even tighter.

Hesitating, Donald decided that if he was going to put Richard's best interests at heart, he might as well do what he could. He reached down and slowly pulled Richard's rumpled blanket up over his skinny, shivering body. Tucking it around him, Donald found his fingertips lingering on the soft fabric, feeling Richard's arm beneath it, unable to tear his gaze away from Richard's pale face. He really did look breathtaking in the dim light of the bedside lamp, even with his sunken eyes and too-big nose.

Donald forced himself to straighten up. " _I'm sorry_ ," he said, softly and sadly. " _I don't want to scare you_."

"'s okay," Richard mumbled, voice muddled with sleep. "You're a nice ghost."

Blinking, Donald let out a surprised laugh. Over the years, Donald had found that the living were more sensitive to his presence when they were half-asleep, and it would seem that Richard was no different. " _It's nothing_ ," he replied, feeling like the entire night sky and all its myriad stars and constellations had made their home inside him. " _Anything I can do to help_."

Richard seemed to have fallen back asleep, because he didn't reply.

Sighing softly, Donald hugged himself and smiled.

* * *

Maybe it was just Donald's imagination, but ever since that night, Richard seemed more comfortable in his presence. The darting glances and nervous shudders had stopped, and he had even begun to laugh along with Big Head's little jokes about the ghost hiding things on them when they had gone misplaced.

(Of course, Donald had done no such thing. If anything, the fact that he had gone back to helping tidy up here and there was making things easier to find.)

Their lives—and, in Donald's case, un-lives—had continued on in relative peace, until one afternoon when Richard had stormed into the room, tossed his bag aside, and threw himself onto his bed. His blue eyes were bright with panicked tears, narrow shoulders hunched and shaking, the thin fingers of his small hands clenching and unclenching on his thighs.

Donald fussed, watching Richard with impotent worry. " _Oh no. What happened_?" he asked, even though Richard couldn't hear him.

Richard let out a quiet wail and buried his face in his hands. "I hate school. I hate class. I hate everybody," he spat, voice trembling. "I am _so fucked_."

" _Nooo_ ," Donald said softly, wishing he could do something, _anything_ to console him.

"I'm so bad at this!" Richard whined from behind his hands. Suddenly, he looked up. "Is this why you died? Did you finally just cave under all of the stupid pressure?"

Donald started. He looked around the room, as though there were anyone else there. " _Me_?"

Richard sighed. "Jesus, now I'm talking to an imaginary ghost," he said under his breath. "Fuck. I’m sorry. Ugh!" Richard shook his head and rubbed at his face. "I'm losing my fucking mind."

" _It's all right_ ," Donald said, only a little hurt by Richard's suggestion that he wasn't real. It wasn't Richard's fault that he couldn't see or hear him. Besides, being talked to—even if Richard thought that he was imaginary—was nice, even under the circumstances. " _The pressure isn't fair. To answer your question, though, I was sickly before that. It was only a matter of time, really._ "

"I just don't know what I'm doing," Richard mumbled, tugging gently at his hair. "I just want to read books and learn about the stuff _I_ want to learn about, not jump through all these hoops just so I can stay in school. Who cares about whether or not I can do presentations, or group projects, or study for a million fucking midterms at once."

" _You're right, it's very, very hard_ ," Donald consoled. " _But you can do this. You're so smart and so hard-working and you care so much_."

Richard looked over to the spot where Donald stood, though his gaze slid off of him like feet on an icy sidewalk. His eyes were red and miserable, his bony cheeks wet with tears. Donald's heart sunk at the sight, and he desperately wanted to gather him into his arms, but Richard sniffled and wiped his eye, letting out a laugh.

"You're a good listener for an imaginary ghost," Richard said, sniffling again. He sighed and flopped back onto his bed, staring up at the wall. "Better than Big Head, at least."

" _It's the least I can do,_ " Donald replied, then paused. He fidgeted with his big, clumsy hands before glancing back up at Richard. " _I'm glad I know you, even if we can't talk to each other_."

Heaving a sigh, Richard kicked off his shoes and scrambled under his blankets, pulling them up under his chin. "Now if you'll excuse me, Imaginary Ghost Roommate, I've been awake for over forty-eight hours."

" _Sleep well_ ," Donald said, smiling sadly when Richard's eyes fluttered shut.

Richard made a noise that may or may not have been in reply and rolled over, snuggling up tighter in his nest of blankets.

Wrapping his long arms around himself, Donald watched as Richard's breathing grew even, his back rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He continued to stand there long after Richard had fallen asleep, unable to bring himself to leave.

Swallowing nervously, Donald bit his lip and took a couple of slow steps forward, then paused. _I shouldn't_ , he thought, then, closing the distance between himself and Richard, raised a translucent, shaking hand, and slowly, slowly, let it rest on Richard's shoulder. He let out a shuddering breath as a tingling warmth spread up his arm and through his chest, down his legs and to his feet. It was like standing in the warm Jersey sun—like the one time Donald's mother had taken him to the beach when he was little, back before she died.

Donald was forced back to reality when Richard let out a tiny noise in his sleep, barely audible in the quiet room. Without thinking, Donald jerked away and stumbled back. As he stared down at his hand, wide-eyed at what he had allowed himself to do, the warmth slowly drained out of him. Somehow, he felt colder and emptier than he had before.

He looked over at Richard, unable to ignore the guilt that threatened to overwhelm him. Even despite it, he wanted desperately to touch him again, to feel the little bumps of his spine through his shirt, to slip his hands through Richard's honey-gold curls, to cup his face in his hands and kiss his tear-stained cheeks and bask in his warmth until it blotted out even the faintest memory of anything else.

A selfish part of himself tried to convince him that Richard's noise wasn't one of distress, that he could get away with touching him again, if he really wanted to, but Donald had already sinking back through the wall and away from Richard.

" _Oh, Donald_ ," he sighed to himself, squeezing his eyes shut and wrapping his arms back around himself again. " _What_ are _you doing_?"

* * *

To Donald's surprise, Richard had begun to talk to him more.

At first, Donald couldn't be sure that Richard was speaking _to_ him—he only rambled quietly, expressing frustration in a vague, only semi-directed way. He mumbled about homework, about Big Head, about classmates. After awhile, though, Richard began using "you" and asking rhetorical questions that Donald had done his best to answer.

Unfortunately, Richard had also started to call him "Mr. Ghost" in a somewhat sardonic way, but Donald couldn't complain. This was the first time since an ill-planned seance in the mid-eighties that anyone had addressed him directly and at length, and he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

One afternoon, though, when Richard was thinking aloud about an essay he had to write about Germanic root languages—Donald was nodding along, understanding none of what Richard was saying—he suddenly stopped speaking and fidgeted awkwardly.

" _Is everything all right_?" Donald asked, cocking his head. He was sitting on Richard's bed, while Richard was at his desk.

Richard stayed silent for a beat longer, then cleared his throat. "I don't know if you're there, but..." He twisted a pencil around in his hands a few times before letting them fall to his lap. "I looked you up."

Donald was taken aback. " _Oh_?" Donald found himself caught between feeling vaguely ashamed and more than a little flattered. " _I hope you didn't mind what you saw_ ," he said with an awkward laugh, suddenly overcome with the desire to apologize to Richard for allowing his own death to be such an inconvenience.

"It said—it said it was from exhaustion," Richard said, fussing again with the pencil, "and a weak heart. That really sucks."

" _It's fine_ ," Donald replied on impulse. He didn't feel fine.

"You had a lot going for you, too—a full-ride scholarship and everything. You were valedictorian at your high school and your grades were 'impressive for one who had gone through so much in his short life.' That's what one of the articles said." Richard paused. "Because of, like, the fact that you were an orphan. Jesus, you were only a year out of graduating with honors."

Donald shrugged, suddenly unable to bring himself to reply. Luckily, it didn't matter, so he just sat there, watching Richard play with the pencil and listening to him speak.

About _him_.

 _To_ him.

"I'm really sorry you died."

Donald swallowed thickly.

"Yeah, and like..." Richard trailed off into silence. Suddenly, he let out a nervous laugh. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but you were really attractive. Like, _wow_ —like, I definitely would have—" He broke off and shook his head, burying his face in his hands. "This is so stupid—I'm sorry. I was just talking about how sad it was that you died, and now I'm hitting on you or—or something."

Staring at Richard's silly little smile, Donald could feel a warmth slowly start to envelop him again, similar to when he had felt when laid his hand on Richard's shoulder. This time, though, it started deep in his core and radiated outward, beautiful and incandescent, like he had swallowed the sun.

All because of Richard's sweet and pointless words.

" _Thank you_ ," Donald said—not just about the compliment, but for everything. For talking to him. For caring enough to learn about him. For moving in to Donald's dusty little room and for making his life better for just having known him.

For existing, in all his sweet and awkward and trembling beauty.

Just once, Donald wished that Richard could hear him, just so Richard could understand how much he meant to him.

Richard let out another nervous chuckle. "You're welcome," he said, but started, realization dawning on him. Slowly, he lowered his hands, looking over at the place where Donald was sitting—like he had many times before, startled by the presence he could sense but not see—his eyes wide and wondering, brows knit, mouth hanging open.

It was then that Donald realized something was different.

Richard wasn't just looking in his general direction.

He was looking _at_ him, their gaze meeting for the first time.

Donald let out an astonished laugh and, biting back tears, let himself stare into the depths of Richard's pale blue eyes. They had been beautiful before, but now that they were looking at him—truly _looking at him_ —it was like staring into an endless, cloudless sky.

Before he could forget his manners entirely, Donald held up a hand in greeting. "Hello. I'm Donald Dunn."

Slowly, a startled grin spread on Richard's face, illuminating it perfectly.

"Hi, Donald. I'm Richard."


End file.
